“I’ll never do so any more, Mr Mervyn—I won’t indeed,” cried Fin; “only let me off this time.”
“Jump, you little gipsy, jump,” cried Mr Mervyn.
“It’s too high—I daren’t,” cried Fin.
“I have seen you leap down from a place twice as high, my little fawn. Now, then, jump at once.”
Fin looked despairingly round for a few moments, then made a piteous grimace, and lastly sprang boldly down into the strong arms, which held her as if she had been a child.
“Now,” said Mr Mervyn, “about the mistletoe?”
“Mr Mervyn, pray. Oh, it’s too bad. I...”
“Don’t be frightened, little one,” he said, tenderly, as he retained her with one hand, to smooth her breeze-blown hair with the other. “There, come along; let me help you down.”
But Fin started from him, like the fawn he had called her, and sprang down the great bank.
“Mind my soup,” shouted Mr Mervyn; and only just in time, for it was nearly overset. Then he helped Tiny down, blushing and vexed; but no sooner were they in the lane, than Fin clapped her hands together, and exclaimed—